TMI
by Random Guise
Summary: Perhaps the level of a civilization can be measured in the amount of fine print from everyday disclosures. Worf disagrees. Quick one shot, now with a couple of errors fixed.


**A/N: A one shot for Worf; I could have put it in DS9 but I went with the younger and more impulsive version.**

 **Once again I was editing a Humperdinck chapter before uploading and a story idea struck; good thing the idea was for a short story. Sometimes it just seems that there is Too Much Information when it comes to disclosures, warnings, guidelines and instructions.**

 **No characters or settings of mine used. And yes, yttrium is an actual element.**

The Information Age

Worf exited the holodeck and made his way somewhat slowly down the corridor toward his room, a slight limp from a sore ankle keeping him from his usual brisk pace. He had just completed one of his 'training' programs; one that had been modified multiple times to increase the difficulty level. The fact that he had only barely managed to complete it only added to his sense of accomplishment. A bit of celebration was in order before considering what changes could be made to make it more challenging next time. He found a note on the wall beside his door that read "This room now upgraded with the Total Minutiae Information system." Oh yes, he had heard something about the _Enterprise_ getting an upgrade with replicators with advanced AI.

After entering his room he began to relax immediately. The aches and pains of the training, in addition to his fatigue made just enough of a reminder of his ordeal to allow him a bit of pride. He walked over to the food replicator and noticed it a) was off and b) now had a thin horizontal slot to the right of the display. He powered the system up and considered for a moment. Prune juice would be good, but this was a special occasion; he ordered "Blood wine, hot".

The control panel lights on the replicator flashed and a voice said "Printing out full nutritional information on the beverage blood wine, hot." Dozens of sheets were spit out the new small slot as Worf, unaware, was able to grab only the first. And it appeared to be just that, a table of facts and levels for innumerable ingredients and their attributes; really useful information like how much yttrium could be found in 100 ml. The other sheets now were scattered about the floor, including one that warned that hot beverages were hot.

"I don't want all this!" he exclaimed. "All I want is a goblet of blood wine."

"T.M.I. guidelines and the United Federation of Planets suggest all information be made available to personnel aboard Starfleet vessels. Printed copy is provided for offline viewing." This statement was followed by another flurry of papers as the replicator spewed out copies of the regulations and guidelines in their entirety. The papers now covered the floor and were nearly to his ankles.

"Stop printing pages NOW."

"Printing out manual for detailed instructions on how to stop printouts." By this point the paper was past his ankles and nearing the top of his boots.

"I...want...blood wine, not a...new carpet!" he snarled, trying to control his temper. He needed to relax and this was just the opposite.

"You want blood wine out of your carpet?" Another volume of instructions on how to remove stains from floor coverings emerged. "Or maybe you'd like to order blood wine colored carpet." A few suggested catalogs joined the pile on the floor that now was past the top of his boots.

"I don't understand" said Worf in resignation.

"Now providing materials in Klingon instead of Federation Standard" added the replicator helpfully. All the previous material was now printed out again, but in Klingon. Worf could no longer see his boots as the pile now reached to just below his knees.

"WHERE'S MY WINE?"

"Giving coordinates of the nearest 100 planets where you can purchase blood wine. Would you like to join a wine-of-the-month club?" Colorful travel itineraries, brochures and club applications came out until finally the flow stopped.

Very carefully picking his words, Worf tried one more time. "Blood wine" he said, not even caring about the temperature.

"Unable to comply. Insufficient resources due to allocation to printed materials."

Worf looked to his Bat'leth, but thought better of it. That was too honorable a weapon to use on the infernal machine.

Up on the bridge Data was at his post when the warning klaxon sounded while the computer warned "Weapons fire detected onboard the _Enterprise_." Before he could check for the location Worf came over the intercom with "This is Lt. Worf, cancel red alert; Commander La Forge to my quarters please."

Geordi responded to Worf's request and chimed at his door. "Come" was the response.

The door opened, a few pages slid out and Geordi stepped through to be instantly assailed by the smell of burnt paper and electronics. Worf stood in the center of the room with a phaser ready in case the replicator misbehaved again. However, with a large hole the size of a phaser blast in the center of it there was a small probability of any further communication from it. A few singed pages lay in front of what used to be the replicator. Geordi looked at Worf for an explanation.

"There was no problem with the old replicators" offered Worf.

The End


End file.
